


...straight to your arms i'd go

by abscission



Series: the sky is blue and I love you [5]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Assassins & Hitmen, Blood and Injury, Blood and Violence, Established Relationship, Half a Case Fic, Hopeful Ending, M/M, Minor Character Death, Timeline What Timeline, Undercover Missions, Whump, blood becomes a sudden focus
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-26
Updated: 2020-02-26
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:55:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22913584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abscission/pseuds/abscission
Summary: Lance regarded the corpses he’s made as though the dead Galra would give him answers.-The Blue Shrike accepted a missive from his prince and this is that story.or: the assassin!lance AU we all secretly wanted and my personal soft!lotor indulgence fic.loosely inspired by prompts from whumptober last year: day 8, stab wound + day 23, bleeding out
Relationships: Lance/Lotor (Voltron)
Series: the sky is blue and I love you [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1509101
Comments: 12
Kudos: 70





	...straight to your arms i'd go

**Author's Note:**

  * For [inkbadger](https://archiveofourown.org/users/inkbadger/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Pushing It](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22844266) by [cluelesspaladin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cluelesspaladin/pseuds/cluelesspaladin). 



> this is inkbadger's brainchild and i thank her for letting me play in her sandbox ahhhhhhhhhh
> 
> this SHOULD have been a part ii of a thematic pair... 
> 
> unbeta-ed. I'm too tired I just want this out there I'll come back and edit it later on and add all the details. Enjoy, clue, this one's for you.

“Run that by me again?”

“Please, heart.” Lotor’s inflection over the comms didn’t change. Lotor’s a marvel, really. Even Lance couldn’t hold nonchalance for long, and certainly not when talking to Lotor. Part of why the Blue Shrike never speaks.

He whirled around to sink his blade into the last few officers alive on this facility. “It’s not ideal,” Lotor continued, “and I know how uncomfortable it makes you to go unmasked, but I don’t see another way to assassin into the talks.”

Lance regarded the corpses he’s made as though the dead Galra would give him answers.

He knew how these things go. Lotor would comm him when he’s off-world, drop a new exciting idea on him, Lance would refuse, Lotor would lay out all the reasons Lance was the only one he can trust to do that mission — and then Lance would cave, because he was a thrill-seeker and a sucker for the proud, satisfied look on Lotor’s face when he presents a clean kill.

He gave a practiced sigh — the kind that’ll send static over the ansible connection — and said, wiping the blood off his luxite dagger, “Alright. But you’re coming up with all the personal details.”

There’s a beat of silence from his earpiece. It matched up with the vacuum silence of the droid-production base Lance just cleared, and he allowed himself a smug smile under the mask.

“Thank you,” Lotor sighed with palpable relief. It still sent a thrill through Lance that Lotor emotes so easily around him — the Galra Prince usually donned an emotional mask as solid as the Blue Shrike’s physical one. “I will arrange for an out-of-sight position.”

Another pause, this one heavy with a strange expectation. Lance turned to the console and begins the data wipe.

“I— will transfer the encrypted data to your base in two dobashes.” Lotor’s hesitation was strange- almost as though he wanted to say something, but changed his mind at the last moment.

Lance didn’t even get the time to say _verpit sa_ before the connection was cut.

A soft blip from the mainframe: flashing Galran on the screen announces that all files have been deleted. Satisfaction curled up in his chest like a purring cat— another job well done.

Whatever Lotor wanted that required his best assassin to do an undercover job, Lance will do it, and he’ll do it with flying colors.

*

Lance held up the dress shirt and regarded it for a few long tics.

Lotor, hovering behind his shoulder, asked worriedly, “Hoods are not used in the Galra ranks except druids, and I do not have any druids under my command. A secretary-scribe has the least eye-catching official dress, so I—”

“It constantly alarms me how close Galra wear is to Earth prep fashion,” Lance said loudly, letting his amusement at the white collared undershirt and a v-neck sweater show on his face.

Seeing his smile, Lotor relaxed. He took a gentle hold on Lance’s chin to tilt his head up. Lance allowed it, and his amused smirk turned into a genuine smile at the relieved glimmer in Lotor’s eyes.

He is so beautiful he takes Lance’s breath away, even under the crappy lighting of the asteroid way station’s resting quarters. 

Lotor ducked down for a kiss, and even though Lance went on tiptoe to chase his lips when Lotor made to pull back, the prince kept it short and chaste, and chuckled softly when Lance pouts. Lotor swept a thumb over Lance’s cheek bones. “My shrike,” he said, voice low and brimming with pride and love, and Lance was so happy he could die.

That feeling buoys him through the vent-crawling and the sneaking and manages to make his moon-side safehouse seem less empty.

*

No one on board the _Sincline_ knows he is the Blue Shrike. And why should they? The Blue Shrike never takes off his mask, the Blue Shrike is hardly seen on Lotor’s flagship, and the Blue Shrike talks even less.

He refrains from tugging at the white collar or fidgeting with the sweater or the not-tweed jacket and, really, he deserves a medal for keeping a straight face at all the pomp and circumstance of this peace initiative. If anyone really thought a little chitchat can stop a war, can stop _Lotor_ , they’re kidding themselves.

(Not that he doesn’t want this nonsensical war to end; it’s only that this had gone on so long, he’s not sure if the universe knows how to put aside its weapons and talk it out. Also, he just thinks everyone can afford to be a little more honest about their willingness to stab people — case in point: the Red Paladin is glaring daggers at Lotor and the generals.)

He tries to bite back a grin (when one is shoved into a retraining facility for ten years out of the twenty one’s been alive, one learns to tough it out with a grin and a joke), but going by the suspicious looks thrown his way by the back row paladins, he’s not succeeding.

Or, they could be suspicious _of_ him. Frankly, he’s as surprised the Paladins of Voltron are human as they are of him being human — but is it really, when so much of Lotor’s ranks are halfbloods and castaways?

He feels naked without his mask. The Yellow Paladin has dark skin like him, and there’s a certain pitying quality to the Paladin’s gaze that makes Lance’s skin crawl. But here, in this bright room in the last row of Lotor’s diplomatic entourage, he’s just a scribe, not the Blue Shrike, and so Lance mentally recites the details of the operation to avoid glaring a hole into the Voltron Coalition.

He’s on extraction routes when something in his mind begins to _itch_. It’s such an alarming sensation that he flinches away from it, feeling like he’s twelve again and druids have just stuck their fingers into his brain. His train of thought scatters like spooked birds, and his breaking of formation makes Ezor turn around and snarl at him. For a second, responding in-character as a wimpy desk clerk isn’t hard at all. Discord in her ranks quelled, Ezor turns back to the talks.

The feeling fades, and Lance shoves down the bubbling panic in his chest.

That couldn’t have been a druid as none were allowed into the sector; Narti has no business rooting around in the brains of Lotor’s handpicked entourage, and anyways her probes don’t feel like that; perhaps someone in the Voltron entourage has psychic abilities?

But it hadn’t felt like a thought-probe. It felt more like… a presence, something trying to get _in_ instead of just read his thoughts.

More importantly, what does this mean for the mission?

*

“No, none of them are psychic.”

It’s the night cycle, but half of the facility sounded to still be awake. Space time zone jet lag, and it made sneaking into Lotor’s quarters very risky, but Lance had to report in.

Lotor’s brows were furrowed in concentration. He stared unseeingly at the wall, arms crossed. “I viewed their files myself. All of the Paladins are human — like yourself,” purple eyes flitted towards Lance; lilac lips curled into a quick smile to lighten the mood, “—and the Princess is an Altean. The Coalition delegates are all non-threatening species. It was not them.”

Lance considered this. He hadn’t put a lot of stock into that theory; for it to have just been an overlooked enemy asset would’ve been too easy — but this complicated things.

“Could Narti do something about this?” Lance mused out loud, flipping a luxite razor blade between his fingers as he does so. He’s feeling especially restless tonight, enough to require the assurance of a wall against his back and an emergency exit at hand. “If she can’t then I’ll have to push the schedule forwards.”

His original schedule had involved two more days of recon, but if there’s weird magic flying around…

“How badly do you want this Galra dead, Lotor?”

“Very badly,” said the prince, drier than dirt, and then his expression changed. “However, I will not have you on a compromised mission. If you think the risks are too great, unfounded or not—“ Lotor raised a hand to stop Lance’s protests before he’d even voiced them, “—I want you to call off the mission. Clear?”

Lance grimaced, but he gave a nod. Wherever that strange mental prodding came from, so long as it doesn’t become intrusive, he can still do his job. Sure, the Matron always said to _watch and wait_ , Lance hadn’t thrown away the parts of his conditioning that were useful, but when uncertainties factored into high-risk operations, speed became of essence.

Standing, he put on his (re-designed) mask and turned to go. Built into it were a variety of tech, chief of which was a signal jammer and a distortion filter, making any camera of any level of sophistication (excepting cutting-edge druid-tech, but even then Lance has ways around those) pointing at him to experience a tiny malfunction and then loop through their last ten seconds of footage until he was out of range.

He had reached for the door when he heard Lotor get up from his desk and approach him. Usually, Lance would welcome the closeness, but he was much too on edge, and the room was too small. He hid his fists behind his back and faced Lotor. Hated how he’s regressed to this stage at just a little mental scare.

Two feet away was his limit. He wasn’t sure how to tell Lotor—

“Lance?”

He didn’t remember closing his eyes, but when he opened them, his heartbeat was way too high for resting pace and his whole body was tense. Lotor was standing still, watching him carefully. The furrow between his brows was back. When he speaks, however, the words wre carefully chosen and his tone even. His eyes found Lance’s behind the mask and held his gaze.

“I just wanted to say: I have faith in your judgement. Success is paramount and Sendak is hard to catch, but I will not exchange you for him.”

Lance smiled, grateful; he retracted the mask enough to show that.

Lotor did not smile back but his edges softened, showing less of the warlord and more of the scholar.

Then he closed the distance between them in a stride, cradled Lance’s face between his hands and kissed him.

Lance’s brain suffered a small crash. It was all he can do to not melt into the embrace, earlier discomfort wiped away. Once again, Lotor kept it short and chaste, although when he pulled away this time he swiped his tongue across Lance’s lips. He had on a proud little smirk when Lance looked, and now Lance’s heartbeat was really through the roof. 

Lance could think of nothing to say without stuttering, so he shuttered the mask to hide his red face and hightailed it out of the room.

**

Allura walks into complete chaos in the Paladins’ quarters.

“What do you mean, the Blue Lion has _rejected_ you?” Pidge cries, pulling on her hair. “She can’t have _rejected you_ , how will we form Voltron for the demonstration tomorrow?!”

“How should I know how a big metal space cat’s brain works?” Matt shouts back, as frazzled as his sibling. “She wouldn’t lower the barrier! She wouldn’t talk to me!”

“A Lion’s Paladin can’t just _change_ ,” Keith sneers, bad temper and stress coming together to form a frightening attitude, “you must be doing something wrong.”

“I am _not_.” Matt whirls on him.

“I **knew** a human in Lotor’s ranks wasn’t normal!” Hunk yells at all of them, sounding uncharacteristically vindictive. “I knew it, I _told you_ , we have to mount a rescue mission!”

Shiro is standing to the side, one arm wrapped around himself, head buried in the other hand.

“You did,” Keith bites back.

“Did _not_.”

“Accuse my brother one more time see if I don’t shiv you, Paladin or not,” Pidge throws herself in between the two men, bayard in hand and teeth bared.

“Enough!” Allura slams the butt of her staff into the floor. She had found the scepter from one of the storage rooms of the castleship. Despite its old age and its ceremonial decorations it is still a staff, properly weighted and finely crafted, and the _thunk_ reverberates in the space.

Her paladins freeze, all eyes turning to her.

“Better.” She holds her back straight and her grip on the staff firm and she stares into each of their eyes in turn. “Will someone be so kind as to enlighten me to the situation?”

Hesitantly, Matt raises a hand. “Back at the welcoming parade, I felt Blue getting restless. I tried to talk to her, but she didn’t respond. When we were dismissed I went to the hanger to check up on her, but she refused to drop her barrier. I haven’t heard anything from her over the mental connection, either.”

“Princess, can a Lion’s Paladin change?” Pidge lowers her bayard. The previous agitation has been replaced by concern. “You assigned us our Lions. Is there a way to find out?”

Well. This is alarming. She will have to navigate this delicately.

“Traditionally,” says the Princess Allura, stepping fully into her role, “a Paladin is a position for life. However, there is no theoretical reason a Lion’s Paladin can’t change during the service of a Paladin. Quintessence has been known to undergo alchemical changes with no definite cause.” She pauses to take in their reactions. Shock; fear; contemplation. “Similarly, there is no empirical evidence that a Paladin _can_ change.”

“So,” Keith says flatly, “you don’t know.”

Allura bristles at the affront. But no, she is a princess, last of the Alteans, and Red Paladins are famously spirited. She will take this in stride, and trust in the Black Paladin’s leadership to help Keith. “That is correct.”

And then she can’t hold back her personal curiosity any lon ger. “What makes you say the Blue Lion has chosen another Paladin?”

Matt and Pidge exchange a look. Matt holds up three fingers and begins counting off. “One, process of elimination. I’ve done nothing but attend that parade since we got here, so it can’t have been anything on my part. Two, that space Blue used to take up in my head now feels hollow. Three,” he glances at Hunk, who crosses his arms and grimaces, “last thing I got from Blue was this image — a human boy with a Galra knife, alone in a metal room.”

There doesn’t seem to be a connection. Allura tilts her head. “And?”

“And,” Matt sighs heavily, “that boy looks a lot like one of Lotor’s scribes.”

**

Lance flips through the maps one last time, then burns the documents.

The mental probing hasn’t returned, which is good. He’s began feeling eyes on the back of his neck in the talks, which is bad.

There’s supposed to be a Voltron demonstration two days ago — Lance originally planned to tail his target and complete the job using the revelries as cover, but the Voltron Coalition had withdrawn their showboating at the last minute. He wasn’t the only one miffed by it; during his nighttime rounds in the facility, he overheard plenty of Galra complaints about all the good food and wine going to waste in storage.

Several options remain open to him, going forwards.

Asking Lotor to host a party is the more attractive option, if only because this time he’ll get to participate for a little while before going back to his job, but it will draw undue attention to Lotor should Galra dignitaries die on the night of a party he throws.

Asking the Galra to throw a party is more doable. They are not a patient species, and the days of sitting around on their asses twiddling thumbs is getting to them — a whisper here, a word there, and Lance is confident he can get a party going after office hours. The problem with this is he cannot guarantee the attendance of his target. Without the distraction of flashing lights and bright colors, he might as sneak into the target’s quarters and be done with it.

Or, he bide his time and wait. The Voltron Coalition is the biggest unknown factor in this mission, and he wants to get a better understanding of how the Princess ticks. Call it a professional curiosity.

Push comes to shove, he’ll do it the traditional way on the last day of the talks. He can hunker down here and wait for Lotor to comm him again, or he can hitch a ride with the rest of the negotiating parties.

(What really worries him is how close he is being watched by the Paladins of Voltron. He took one day off to scope out the Galra quarters during the day cycle when no one’s there, and later in homebase that same day Ezor came over to reprimand him for skipping the talks — because she received politely-worded complaint from the Coalition that incomplete turnout reflects badly on the sincerity of their wish for peace — and Lance had to practice breathing exercises back in his room for an entire dobash to avoid punching a hole in the flimsy metal wall. Why are they noticing him? This role was meant to _not_ be noticed. Their attention could cause Lotor the talks, and then it wouldn’t matter if Sendak was dead or not.)

*

“So hey,” said the Blue Paladin, grinning a winsome smile, the colorful lights glinting off his white teeth — were those porcelain veneers? “What brings you to this sector of space?”

Lance choked on his electric blue cocktail. A tic later, he managed to say, “I— beg your pardon?”

With a jerky motion the Paladin gestured at Lance. “Couldn’t help but notice you don’t look like other Galra.”

For a moment, Lance seriously considered using the loud music to feign deafness and leave.

Turns out, he hadn’t needed to do anything at all. Princess Allura surprised them all by announcing a “celebration of peace” and threw open the doors of the Castle of Lions. She invited everyone — was insistent on it. Peace can only be achieved from inclusivity and understanding, she’d preached, and proceeded to have her Paladins land the Lions in a semicircle around the edges of the (shockingly large) foyer.

The Galra were especially welcome, and if Lance wasn’t focusing ninety percent of his attention on tracking the movements of Sendak and his guards and the remaining ten on maintaining his cover, he’d be genuinely impressed by how accommodating the Voltron Coalition delegates have been. For a group of conquered planets, they were laudably cordial towards their conquerers.

It was all going well, until.

The Blue Paladin had a mop of blond hair, pale skin, and brown eyes. You couldn’t get more Earth-like than him.

Sendak’s party wasn’t moving from discussions with a visibly tense Princess Allura and looked to be preoccupied for a while. It was as good a chance to fish for information as any.

“How do you mean?” Lance put on his best civilian facade and blinked guilelessly up at the slightly taller Paladin.

“Well,” said the Paladin, then paused, as though Lance’s question threw him off. “I’m human, and I come from Earth. My fellow Paladins and I run with an Altean now, but I always hope to go back to Earth. What about you?”

Internally, Lance grimaced. It didn’t surprise him that the Paladins were bleeding hearts, but it rankled that they thought him worth of pity. He could only hope their interest with him lay in his origins and no further.

He put on his best innocent look, and decided to throw in a dash of hero worship. “I... don’t remember where I’m from,” he said, rubbing his neck and looking at the ground, stealing a glance towards Sendak; still there, good. “I’m just a scribe. Frankly, I don’t know how I had the luck of being chosen to come on this trip, you know. I’ve always looked up to Voltron! It’s an honor to meet you.”

Being lucky made Lance anxious. He never got lucky. The Lions towering over the gala fed the jittery restlessness, making him hyperaware of his armor and gear underneath the Galra formalwear (which looked like what Marco wore to prom night, and when Lance first saw it he didn’t know whether to laugh or cry; Lotor left him a note, which helped).

“You heard about Voltron even in the Galra ranks?” Now the Paladin looked interested, and he was doing a bad job of trying to hide it.

“Everyone’s heard of Voltron,” Lance raised an eyebrow. “And looking as I am, I figured I’d take my chances with Prince Lotor.”

As though summoned, Lotor appeared from within the crowd, conversing with Acxa. When the two of them came close, they broke off their conversation.

“Paladin,” said Lotor, inclining his head but not offering a hand. He did not look at Lance.

“Soldier,” Acxa said, glancing at Lance. She kept her voice low and her gaze lowered as she checked in on someone ostensibly under her command, the picture of a perfect general.

The Blue Paladin returned a tight smile, and then Lotor and Acxa moved on.

For a tic, the Paladin simply stared after them. Then he turned to Lance. “They always that stiff?” He jabbed a thumb over his shoulder, evidently trying to keep judgement out of his voice.

To that, Lance’s laugh was genuine. “We wouldn’t be Galra without it!”

“But you’re not, though, are you?”

Lance raised both eyebrows.

“A Galra, I mean.” The Paladin again gestured at him awkwardly, as though he meant to indicate all of Lance. Instantly, Lance felt dislike permeate his senses.

He let it show.

“I don’t know, I could be half. Or a quarter.” The more he talked, the more Lance realized he needed to leave this situation before he did something he couldn’t take back. “Or I could not be. What’s it to you?”

The Paladin blinked and backed up. “Whoa, sorry, I didn’t mean to— I didn’t mean anything. I just thought—“

“That I looked different and that meant I didn’t belong? That I was lost?” In the corner of his eye, Sendak turned away from the Princess and began making his way towards the gates. “That because I don’t have purple skin and purple fur it meant I needed Voltron to rescue me? I thought Voltron was _better_ than Zarkon and his blood purity.”

He let that hang in the air for a tic. The Paladin looked aghast.

“I should go,” Lance said, and wove into the crowd after Sendak without a backwards glance.

*

It went well, until it wasn’t.

Dead Galra guards littered the floor like tasteless decor. If he didn’t watch his footing, he might slip on all the blood. Their armor was hard to get past, and at some point in the skirmishes Lance had stopped bothering with cleanliness in favour of survival.

The door was jammed well and shut, and Lance had lost his element of surprise when he dropped on Sendak. What should’ve been a killing blow became a grazing one, and he hadn’t anticipated the vial of quintessence that Sendak knocked back. It didn’t heal his injury, thank the gods, so he couldn’t make a ruckus with half his throat torn, but it stopped the bleeding and Lance was now trapped with a brawler in a metal box with no hidey-holes.

He also did not expect Sendak to pull out his druid arm; weapons were not allowed into the facility. Lance only snuck his through because they were built into his suit, and he and Lotor poured good money into making the suit not trigger any alarm.

Sendak’s threats were a pained whisper, but they made the hairs on Lance’s neck stand on end.

“I am flattered,” Sendak managed, lips curled around a vicious sneer, fangs as yellowed as his eyes, “to host the Blue Shrike. Who may I thank for this honor?”

Lance remained in his corner and did not respond. He did not intend to let Sendak live to tell this tale, which of course meant this would not trace back to Lotor, so if his heart rate would just _calm the fuck down_ —

Sendak’s gigantic claw went flying by. Lance dodged it by a hair, and slammed into the walls. The magitek joint sparked with energy. Sendak snarled at him from across the room.

Lance darted in. Predictably, he fared no better against Sendak in close quarters than he did in mid, but it gave Sendak an illusion of having the upper hand. He darted out again, dodging the druid arm on its return swing, then bit his lips to keep quiet when it snapped out once more, deceptively nimble, and caught his side.

It tore through the armor, no surprise, but it dug into his flesh, three searing lines of pain. Once again the room was too small for the arm, and it embedded itself into the walls. Once again, the connecting core pulsed with the effort of recall, and Lance took his chance.

He had only one disrupter on him, and it was his mask. Stupid, stupid, _stupid_. Of course Sendak would have snuck his signature weapon past the guards; of _course_ a general as high as his rank would have had druid-treatment; why didn’t Lance bring more gear?

There’s nothing to it. Sendak will die tonight, and Lance didn’t mind dead men seeing his face.

He flitted back into melee range, feigning hesitation, and Sendak took the bait. He lunged forwards, victory shining on his face, and then Lance whipped off his mask and shoved it into the pulsing core.

There was a soundless explosion; pain burned up his arm; Lance had closed his eyes a split second before the explosion and so now he had a split second’s advantage over Sendak.

With his good arm he drove the luxite dagger up to the hilt in Sendak’s ear canal, and with the sparking, fizzing shards of the mask he stabbed the general in his bio-eye.

Sendak’s body spasmed, mouth open in a silent scream.

Lance pulled out the dagger and slit his throat open from ear to ear. To say it was a subpar kill would be an understatement.

In the ensuing silence, Lance spat out a mouthful of blood and took stock.

The room was frighteningly messy. The bed had been overturned, the floor-lamps shattered, the gouges in the wall hinting at exterior damage. With adrenaline pumping through his veins he had little sense of noise, but he wouldn’t put it past the facility’s internal security to pay him a visit.

He no longer tried to reign in his heartbeat, though be made an attempt at regulating his breathing. He needed to get out of here, preferably before the pain of his injuries set in.

Lance scooped up his ruined mask and dove into the vents. Never had he been more glad for the archaic design of this facility.

*

It was no use trying to stem the blood. His undershirt was already a soaked mess, abandoned two turns back for the cleaning machines to find. The sweater made for a bad bandage and the jacket an even worse sling, but his arm was burned more badly then he’d thought, and if he didn’t come up with a place to treat them, an infection would be the last of his worries.

He could only think of one place secure enough to go, and it wasn’t a scribe’s quarters.

Grimly, he pulled himself forwards with his good arm. The muscles were beginning to complain, but his destination wasn’t far.

Just a couple more turns.

*

With his mask broken, there was nothing he could do about the cameras in the corridors. He tried for a two-point landing and ended up landing on his back, jolting his wounds harsh enough that he drew blood holding back a scream, but he managed to keep the vent casing held up, so it was at least he kept quiet.

There was also nothing he could do about the smear of blood he left on the floor, or the hand prints on the vent casing. He thanked whoever may be listening for the dimmed night-cycle lights and the desertion of this sector, even though it meant the gala had been interesting enough for Lotor to keep his generals there for this long.

He took a breather against the wall.

A short fumble in the armor’s hidden compartments and he’d procured the duplicate keycard Lotor had sent with the formalwear. His hand was shaking so hard it took two tries before the door opened to pitch blackness.

Lance couldn’t tell if the twist in his chest was relief or disappointment. Either way, he pointed himself in the direction of the bathroom and began to move, mind already thinking ahead to his extraction. Better he get off this rock before Lotor’s entourage; stagger the happenings, distance the cause and effect. If he could somehow steal an Altean pod…

*

Lotor kept his sigh to himself as he walked the corridors late in the night cycle. The Princess Allura had fascinating insight, even young and temporally displaced as she was. He did not mind keeping his entourage at the function for a little longer if it meant he could occupy his time with her instead of so menial a task as networking — he left that to Ezor and Acxa, and kept Narti and Zethrid as his personal guard — and he was very aware of Lance’s absence from the function.

He tried to put it out of his mind, give Allura his full attention, but Sendak’s martial prowess and tactical mind was well-proven on the battlefield. This was the hardest assignment he’d yet given Lance, but Sendak needed to go if Lotor was going to cut into Zarkon’s rank and file. Assassinations may be a dirty tactic, it was no less honorable a way to gain power should one party succeed, as Galra culture went. It was only a failed or foiled assassination that brought shame to one’s blood, and loathe he was to acknowledge it, his Blue Shrike would sooner die than fail.

(Lance would also not leave a corpse nor any gear, to avoid trophies and post-mortem associations. It was how he was trained. This made Lotor afraid; if Lance died — he’d probably never know.)

His generals were all in their respective quarters. He sent them away at the mouth of his quarters with quiet words of caution, then turned around to head to the common barracks after they were gone.

It was unlikely, by all accounts, that Lance would retreat to the room assigned to his cover, but standing at the corridor that lead to his quarters, Lotor was hit with an overwhelming sense of finality. He did not understand it, and so here he stands, knocking on a scribe’s door.

There was no response.

He tried again, but only once, then ruled out this room.

There was another place he could check, a storage unit where Lance had prepared, reviewed, and then burned his materials — he wasn’t there, either.

Lotor stood there a moment, listening.

There were no sirens, no alarms, no screams of murder, so it must be safe to presume Lance had carried out the mission successfully. Perhaps he had already left the facility, and there would only be a report sitting on Lotor’s desk and light years between them

Ah.

This was why.

Chastising himself, Lotor made his way back to his quarters. This mission had been the only time since the war heated up again that he had seen Lance consistently, had had his lover by his side, even if he sat at the back row and they never talked. Just seeing Lance safe was a weight off his heart he didn’t know he carried.

Logically, he knew Lance to be among the finest assassins the druids have ever produced. Emotionally, well. They were working on it. A private ansible connection diminished the vast chasm of space-time, but the networks only went so far, and it did not support visuals.

With this mission over, when will they next meet?

—That was strange. The vent casing in his corridor was crooked.

And what was that discoloration on the walls? Damn this dim lighting, was it there when he left the rooms—

The tangy metallic smell of blood hit his senses, and at the same time a shudder ripped through him, his heart rammed into his throat.

Now that he looked, he saw small smears of darkness all along the walls of this portion of the corridor. Drips on the floor, smears on the walls, and a handprint beside the door, splatters of blood on the sensor.

 _Small,_ he told himself, aware that his claws were out. He swiped the card, the door opened. _But already dried._

He switched on the lights; the door swooshed close behind him.

He wanted to throw up.

A bloodied formal jacket was discarded on the floor, then a shattered mask, then a piece of armor, and the trail of ruined clothing led to the bathroom, whose door lay ajar.

Lotor ran forwards, then froze at the threshold.

His shadow obscured the worst of it. Lance was collapsed against the bathtub, the water running into a bath half full (thank the gods, he hadn’t been here long), wads of first aid bandages abandoned a little distance away from lip hands.

Thankfully, he could only smell the cool, clean scent of first-aid quintessence. Lance must’ve done the most basic of dressings and then passed out, so infection shouldn’t be a worry — Lotor switched on the light to see better then fell to his knees.

For the first time in centuries he felt tears prickle at his eyes when he took in the beaten up figure of his lover, but, at least he was alive. At least he was here, and Lotor could help.

*

Lance went from out cold to awake in half a breath and he kept at it, keeping the inhales and exhales consistent, then took in his surroundings.

“I know you’re awake,” Lotor said from somewhere to his left, and Lance relaxed like a puddle of goo.

He was also slightly embarrassed to have woke up in Lotor's bed, all bandaged up.

“Hey,” he said, cracking open his eyes and regretting every single decision that led to this point. Everything hurt.

Lotor didn’t say anything. He merely rose up from his perch by the bed and pressed a kiss on Lance’s forehead. He held it there, and when his hair fell around their faces like tears and he brought up trembling hands to hold Lance’s face, Lance let himself have this. Just for a little while.

Lotor pulled back, then pressed their foreheads together (he was practically on top of Lance now, not that Lance minded), eyes shut tight. His hands had settled around Lance’s neck, and his thumbs brushed Lance’s jaw, feather-light.

Lance waited, heart aching, but he knew Lotor was as fragile with his emotions he was, so he did nothing.

“I was afraid,” Lotor murmured, then he nuzzled closer. “I don’t want to — I refuse to loose you.” Their breaths mingled, and then, against his lips Lotor said, “I am glad you are here.” and kissed him.

It wasn’t a lustful kiss, the kind that started their relationship. It was heavy, it was dry, and it spoke only of love. Carefully, Lance brought up his good hand and placed it between Lotor’s shoulder blades. Lotor made a small, wounded noise and deepened the kiss. There was a tinge of desperation now, and Lance realized he must’ve given Lotor a truly frightening shock.

He turned his face a little to break the kiss, and as Lotor chased his lips Lance steeled his heart to say what must be said.

“I completed the mission,” Lance turned his face away again when Lotor tried to shush him, “but I made a right mess. I have to go.”

The hands dropped from his neck to curl into fists on the pillow. Lotor buried his face in the crook between neck and jaw, and after a heartbeat of just breathing, said, “Alright, my love, what do you need?”

Times like this, Lance thought, looking up at the bed posts and fingering through Lotor’s silky hair, being lucky wasn’t so bad.

**Author's Note:**

> will probably back-date this. 
> 
> originally this was going to have a hozier title, but ... I went with Beyond the Sea because _I have a Bioshock AU planned_ but guess which bitch decided inspiration was boss and wrote things out of order? this tired bitch.


End file.
